The Council
by Poiniard
Summary: [FINISHED] Tales of the Black Dragons of Cormyr set in the Forgotten Realms
1. The Council

Standard Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is a tribute to the Forgotten Realms, its creator and its fans. Certain settings and characters appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. Some of the characters are "canon" while others are my own. These two scenes describe the backdrop of a 3E AD&D campaign set in Cormyr in the Forgotten Realms (DR1372). All reviews are welcome.  
  
Special Note (07/14/03): Most of the characters and events depicted here are based on "Death of the Dragon" by Ed Greenwood.  
  
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THE COUNCIL  
  
Cormyr, the Palace in Suzail, autumn, DR1372, the Year of Wild Magic  
  
The Steel Regent Alusair Obarskyr summoned her Privy Council as soon as the Grand Council was ended. The Grand Council had been an exhausting all-day affair, full of blustering nobles by the dozen and whining merchants by the score, and her temper had begun to flare. Alusair had taken one of the Obarskyr blades from the Treasury to wear during the Council, and only now did she remove it from her belt. She placed the sheathed sword on the table before her. Those gathered here she considered her friends, and she wanted to hear what could not be said before the other nobles in the Grand Council. But Alusair was in a foul mood. The Court Mage Caladnei and the Dowager Queen Filfaeril were in no better spirits.  
  
"My Lord Chamberlain, would you begin?" Alusair said. Anzser, an elderly, bookish man, nodded and stood. In his youth, the Lord Chamberlain of Suzail had been respected for his sword arm. He'd always been a close friend to Alusair's father, and had ridden beside the old king in the great cavalry charge which had shattered the Tuigan horde on a field in Thesk, many years ago. Now, Anzser put his efforts into managing the treasury and the affairs of Suzail. The man was competent and loyal- and he didn't seem to mind shuffling papers. Something which gladdened Alusair to no end. He bowed, and cleared his throat.  
  
"I am afraid I have little to add to what was said in the Grand Council, your Grace. The treasury is drained, and tax collections are down. Because of bandits and because many of your people simply cannot pay them." The Lord Chamberlain peered sheepishly over his spectacles at the stack of papers on the table in front of him.  
  
"What is this about the Houses not paying?" asked Queen Filfaeril. "Was what I heard in the Great Council true?"  
  
Anzser looked uncomfortable. "It is, your Majesty. The Huntcrowns, Illances, Thunderswords and Silverswords are not paying their debts to the crown, and the Tathcrowns will probably soon stop as well."  
  
Alusair pounded a fist on the table and glowered for a moment. Then, a thought occurred to her. She looked up at Anzser. "My father sent money from the royal treasury to various cities outside of Cormyr when the war started, as a contingency should we be defeated in the north. His plan was to have Lord Wyvernspur gather the people of Cormyr and lead them overseas, and rely on these hidden caches of money to sustain the remnants of our people. What of this?"  
  
"What you say is true, your Highness," Anzser said quietly, "but most of these have been already recovered."  
  
"Most?" asked Alusair.  
  
"Aye, there are two such caches which still have not yet been brought back."  
  
"Only two?" The Steel Regent sighed. "I had hoped there would be more than that we could still draw on. Still, we should get this money back."  
  
Anzser did not immediately reply.  
  
"Is there some problem, my Lord Chamberlain?" asked the Court Mage, Caladnei.  
  
"I'm afraid so, Lady Caladnei. You see, we have already sent for the return of these caches. The two which did not come back were, how can I put this."  
  
"Stolen?" asked Lord Hawklin. The nervous chamberlain nodded.  
  
"Well by the Seven Hells, let's steal them back then," growled Alusair.  
  
"We are doing all that we can, your Highness," pleaded the Chamberlain. "I have already retained two parties of adventurers-"  
  
Alusair cut him off. "Enough. Sit down. Anzser, you will let us know as soon as your adventurers come back with my father's money." The Lord Chamberlain bowed and quickly took his seat. The Regent turned next to Sthavar, another aging knight who now served as the Lord Magister of Suzail. His news was no better.  
  
"The Purple Dragon contingent in Suzail is nearly up to full strength, but we've had to strip the border garrisons to do it. The nobles are no longer contributing their own guardsmen. They claim they have enough to do patrolling their own lands and manors."  
  
"Treason!" snarled the Regent. Dauneth Marliir, the Warden of the Eastern Marches, raised a hand to try to calm her.  
  
"Indeed, your Grace," he said. "But there is some truth to it. We lost many men in the Dragonfall War, and then in the retaking of Arabel, and then in the battle of Tilverton. The Purple Dragons are stretched too thin, and many of the lords are forced to patrol their own lands."  
  
Sthavar looked gratefully over at Lord Marliir as the angry Regent turned her glare at him.  
  
"I realize that Cormyr is surrounded by enemies, my loyal High Warden," she said, "but Arabel has long since been retaken, and adventurers have done well clearing the orcs out of the King's Forest. What exactly do these nobles need guardsmen for?"  
  
Dauneth Marliir struggled not to glare back at her. She already knew the answer, but he gave it to her anyway. "What for? What for?" The Warden bristled. "The flatlands north of Eveningstar are still crawling with orcs. No one has heard from any of the estates near the Haunted Halls in some time. Brigands in the east are hiding in the Hullack Forest. The canals of Marsember are no longer safe by night. Between the wars and this damnable weather, food is in short supply and the roads are in a terrible state. As you heard in the Grand Council, the nobles are at the end of their patience, Your Grace."  
  
"Then they will soon be at the end of ropes," she shot back. Alusair sighed and closed her eyes to regain her composure.  
  
"These bandits in the east, are they being supported by Sembia?" she asked.  
  
Lady Beri Huntsilver, the Court Chamberlain spoke up first.  
  
"Some are, Lady Alusair, according to the rumors I have heard at Court. But one group calling themselves the Bandits of the Briar has taken to raiding across the border into Sembia. They are something of local heroes to the poor folk of eastern Cormyr."  
  
"I see," nodded Alusair. "We shall have to do what we can to aid them, then. What other rumors have you heard, Beri?"  
  
"There are whispers of Pretenders beginning to appear, but I don't think there's much to them. They are spreading mainly because so many of the nobles are unhappy. There is one other whispering at Court which may interest you."  
  
Alusair raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Since Beliard has left court," Lady Huntsilver said with a smile, "Storn Tathcrown has been seen wooing the Steel Regent. And not unsuccessfully, some would say."  
  
Alusair was about to deny this rumor when she was interrupted by Queen Filfaeril.  
  
"Beliard has left court? Why was I not informed?"  
  
"That was my doing," answered Caladnei. "I sent him to lead an expedition into the Stonelands."  
  
The Dowager Queen was unable to contain her anger. "What sort of business is that of yours, Caladnei?" she shouted. "I am none too happy with your interference in my daughter's personal affairs. I had Beliard safely under my thumb here at court in Suzail, but now with him leading an army in the Stonelands, what ways have we of influencing him? What if he starts getting ideas?"  
  
"Why mother," Alusair said, "Your concern is touching. But I can handle my own 'personal affairs,' thank you. Suitors are the least of my problems. Anyway, Caladnei sent Darvaer Huntinghorn along as well. He'll keep an eye on my little Bladebrother."  
  
Dauneth chuckled. "No one would suspect an ulterior motive for sending another foray into the Stonelands." He didn't know which would be harder- conquering the Stonelands, or taming the Steel Regent. Dauneth wondered if perhaps Caladnei had set Beliard the easier task.  
  
Outside, a bell tolled, reminding them the hour was growing late.  
  
"Let's move on," suggested Caladnei. Everyone nodded. "Lhaspeera, your report please." Lhaspeera Naerinth, second in command of Cormyr's War Wizards, nodded to her superior, and to her Regent.  
  
"We've been looking into these bandits in the Hullack," she began. "Their leader may be one of Azoun's, shall we say, little indiscretions. As soon as we find out for sure, we will bring him in." The War Wizard glanced at the widowed queen, who was scowling at the mention of an illegitimate child of the old king. But Filfaeril held her tongue and allowed the other woman to continue. "To the west beyond the marshes, the Zhentarim have strengthened their control of the Far Hills. I do have some good news, however. Zhentish activity within our borders lately has been far less than expected." As if an afterthought, she added, "And the Thayan enclave in Marsember has been quiet, but we have been watching them closely."  
  
"The War Wizards need to spend more time rooting out traitors and less time worrying about the Red Wizards," snapped the Dowager Queen.  
  
"As you say, your Highness. For the report on our enemies abroad, I must defer to my lieutenant, Ambrestus."  
  
The wizard who had been sitting quietly beside Lhaspeera stood. He was middle aged, young-looking for a senior War Wizard, and rather handsome, with a short, neatly trimmed beard just beginning to go grey. Ambrestus was somewhat new at Court, and bowed formally to the Regent.  
  
"There has been no activity among the exiled houses in Westgate, your Grace," he said, "The Bleths and Cormaerils seem to be preoccupied with other endeavors at the moment." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "As for Sembia, we have suspicions that Lord Belmer Huntcrown of Suzail has been dealing with one of the powerful houses in Ordulin. He seems convinced that the Sembians have a Pretender of their own, and they are raising him as a prince. But we have nothing to connect the two, nor to convict Lord Huntcrown."  
  
"I also have news from the north, your Grace," he continued. "Perhaps a tenday ago, a fleet left the free city of Calaunt in the northern Vast. It carried some 1,200 of that city's soldiers, and another perhaps 500 mercenaries. The army landed in Scardale and claimed the town for Calaunt."  
  
"The Merchant Dukes seek a foothold in the Dales," exclaimed Dauneth.  
  
"There is a new ruler in Calaunt, my Lord High Warden," replied Ambrestus. "The mercenary force was lead by an adventurer who names himself the new lord of Calaunt. He also claims all the lands north of the River Vesper and east of the River Lis to the Giantspike Mountains, and it is his banner which now flies over Scardale as well as Calaunt."  
  
"Well, the Merchant Dukes will not be mourned in Calaunt, nor in the rest of the Vast," observed Lord Hawklin. "Does anyone really care who rules the hinterlands? Aside from Calaunt and Scardale Town, all he claims is the Flooded Forest."  
  
"There have been troubling reports that he has banished or executed Harpers, but there can be little doubt that he is no friend of the Zhentarim. Apparently, he slaughtered the entire Zhentil Keep garrison in Scardale, then went on the defeat a force of beholders sent against him by the Black Network. There are rumors that he is in league with the Red Wizards and is closely tied to the church of Loviatar, but by most reports, he follows either Selune or Tymora."  
  
"Do the Dalelands have another Lashan on their hands?" asked Queen Filfaeril.  
  
"So it would appear, your Highness," answered the War Wizard. "By most accounts, this man is a harsh ruler but fair, an educated man, and one who is more interested in building and trading than conquering and enslaving. He has gone a long way towards winning over the beleaguered folk of Scardale and Calaunt. He has somehow cleansed Scardale of the Shaking Plague, begun raising fortifications in the Scar, laid the foundation for a new temple to Chauntea in Calaunt, and is even building a large shrine to Lashan Aumersair in Scardale. News out of Chandlerscross is that some two hundred Dalesmen went to Scardale Town to swear fealty to him."  
  
Ambrestus hesitated a moment after completing his report. He looked to Caladnei and Lhaspeera before returning to his seat.  
  
"Well," said Alusair. "It is getting late, and we have not accomplished much. Is there anything else before we end this?"  
  
Lazslo Hawklin and Owden Foley both shook their heads.  
  
"One more thing, my Regent," said Dauneth Marliir. "The replacements for Gwennath of High Hold and battlemaster Ilnbright still have not been made permanent."  
  
Alusair blinked. "Well, they are now. Anything else?"  
  
From the far end of the table there came a discreet cough. Rhauntligan Glarasteer, famed turret and spire merchant of Suzail, stood and cleared his throat.  
  
"Ah, yes, Rhauntligan. How could I forget you?" Alusair gave the warmest smile she could manage.  
  
"Ahem, yes," he answered. "I have some friends looking into the Iron Throne, in Suzail. We can't have them growing too wealthy."  
  
Alusair knew what he meant by friends. "What of Those Who Harp?" she asked. "They have been awfully quiet lately."  
  
"Hrm," said Rhauntligan, fidgeting. "You noticed? The reason they have not been of much help lately is a bit cloudy. Some sort of schism within their ranks." A few eyebrows raised at this news. "I'm afraid that is all I can say about that for now. But I do have other news. You recall that a group of adventurers helped save Marsember from a pirate attack during the war. It seems that they captured a Sembian, and have been keeping him hidden since then. After finally interrogating this pirate, they learned of a plot by the Fire Knives against the infant prince. They turned their prisoner over to Lord Huntinghorn, who was able to foil the plot."  
  
"Who leads this band? Bring him to me," ordered the Regent. "I will make him a Highknight." The merchant bowed, but did not yet take his seat.  
  
"You have something more?"  
  
"One last bit of news, my Regent. "To speak further on this matter, if I may be permitted, I would like to introduce Maxer Hlarr." Alusair nodded her assent, and Rhauntligan went over to a panel in the side wall. Pressing a hidden switch opened a section of the wall, and Rhauntligan ushered in a distinguished looking elderly man. His robes were purple and scarlet, trimmed with black.  
  
"Your Grace, your Highness, Royal Mage and Lords and Ladies of the Realm," the merchant said in a formal voice, "I introduce to you the esteemed magician, Maxer Hlarr, Defender of Suzail, representative of the Council of Mages."  
  
Maxer was not permitted to bring his staff into the council chamber, and had been kept waiting in the antechamber for some time. He was incredibly ancient, but he hobbled forward as best he could and bowed first to the Steel Regent and then to the Dowager Queen.  
  
"On behalf of my brother the Prince Ascendant I bid you welcome, Maxer Hlarr," said Alusair. "Your Regent is most grateful for your loyalty to the realm, and I have not forgotten the services you have rendered to the crown. Now, what is this news you have for us?"  
  
"It seems," Maxer began, "that a powerful spellcaster has come into Cormyr. Incognito, so to speak." Caladnei and Lhaspeera both frowned. "Out of fear for his life, he has not yet appeared before the War Wizards. Instead, he came to us at the Council of Mages. I beg your forgiveness for not bringing him forward immediately, but I have been asked to request an audience with the Regent herself on his behalf. He has not dared come near the Palace, for his mere presense would be perceived as a threat by the War Wizards, and out of professional courtesy toward the Mage Royal, he would rather visit only as a guest."  
  
"Who is this wizard?" demanded Caladnei.  
  
"One claiming to be Semmemon of Darkhold," answered Maxer Hlarr. "And he has sent a gift."  
  
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"The Black Dragons were founded when Glarasteer went into the prison in Suzail in the dark of night with a Writ of Pardon from the Regent and came out with a hand-picked group of scoundrels."  
~War Wizard Lhaspeera Naerinth  
  
***  
  
Glarasteer Rhauntligan carefully made his way across the square, trying not to lose his footing in the dark or get mud on his robes. The week of rain which had turned Suzail's streets to mud had finally lessened to a drizzle. The huge stone building before him was once a proud fortress, but now it served Suzail as a prison. He could remember better days when it was nearly empty. But no longer.  
  
Sighing, Glarasteer mounted the wide steps of the prison, and came to a halt before the great wooden doors flanked by two sour-looking Purple Dragons. Visitors normally weren't permitted after sundown, but upon hearing his name, the guards opened the gates and sent him in. Inside, Glarasteer found himself in a drab courtyard. Crossing it, he made his way to a side door, and came in out of the rain. A prison clerk was sitting behind a small desk. Glarasteer cleared his throat.  
  
"Glarasteer Rhauntligan," he said. "I'm here to see a prisoner. I have a Writ of Pardon from the Regent herself."  
  
The clerk, busy with his record book, gave his visitor little more than a passing glance. "You'll have to see the Captain," he said, pointing with his quill. Glarasteer looked in the direction the clerk had indicated, and saw a hallway. At the end, he found another office, slightly larger than the first, inhabited by another clerk slightly more important than the first, and slightly less busy. This clerk escorted Glarasteer through a maze of passageways and down several flights of stairs, until at last they came to a musty room where an old Purple Dragon lionar sat on a stool with his feet propped up on a crate.  
  
The Captain was very interested in seeing Glarasteer's Writ. In fact, the man insisted. He broke the seal, unrolled the document, read it carefully, turned it over and back in his hands, then read it again. Glarasteer waited patiently. Finally, the Captain grunted and stood up. He grabbed a torch from a wall sconce, and headed down a dark passageway.  
  
"Follow me," he said. "Let's go find the jailer."  
  
The jailer at last lead Glarasteer and the Captain to a long corridor lined with torches with cells on either side. The merchant had to hold a kerchief over his nose against the stench.  
  
"Wasn't always like this," grunted the Captain.  
  
Glarasteer peered into each of the cells as they passed. The jailer followed, twirling his stout club about by its leather thong. Finally, Glarasteer stopped and pointed into the third cell on the right. "These are the ones I want," he exclaimed.  
  
"This one?" asked the jailer. He looked to the Captain, who nodded. "Well, as you say." With a shrug, he took a great ring of keys from his belt, and began to unlock the bars. "Step back, you dogs, while I open the door."  
  
"Looks like Tymora is with you lads tonight," said the Captain.  
  
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Author's Note: In "After the Dragon" in Dragon Annual #5, Ed Greenwood writes that Alusair would like to have an unofficial agency of the Crown to spy on the Crown's enemies in Westgate and Sembia- an agency independent of both the War Wizards and the Harpers. Again, while not an order of knighthood, this would make quite the campain hook for a group of adventurers.  
  
In my own campaign, this group (the PCs) is known as the Black Dragons. The Black Dragons are run by Glarasteer Rhauligan, who answers directly to Alusair. Since the Harper schism, Glarasteer has been looking for a more stable organization to call his own, and is on the verge of leaving the Harpers altogether in favor of the Black Dragons.  
  
My Black Dragons have already rooted out a traitor among the War Wizards, captured a Pretender among the nobility in Eveningstar, and foiled a Fire Knives plot to assassinate the infant Prince Ascendant. They've had run-ins with the Queen's Guard and are seen as little more than ruffians by the "brat's bodyguard." They are very much frowned upon by the Purple Dragons, and a rivalry is beginning to develop there. This is in part because they've willingly had dealings with Semmemon of Darkhold and the thieves guild of Marsember in order to better complete Alusair's missions- the end justifies the means for the Black Dragons.  
  
Most of the Black Dragons came from questionable backgrounds, to put it mildly. According to Lhaspeera, "the Black Dragons were founded when Glarasteer went into the prison in Suzail in the dark of night with a Writ of Pardon from the Regent and came out with a hand-picked group of scoundrels." Despite their somewhat shady reputation, the Black Dragons get things done, and their fame is spreading.  
  
Recently, the Regent sponsored a medieval-style tournament to demonstrate to foreign enemies that Cormyr can still muster some formidible military strength. A Black Dragon, a commoner, won this tournament by defeating the best of the nobles and the Purple Dragons on the field. More than one noble house is now plotting a way to discredit these upstart Black Dragons. 


	2. Scoundrels and Ruffians

Author's Note and Standard Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is a tribute to the Forgotten Realms, its creator and its fans. Certain settings and characters appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. Most of the characters are my own. All reviews are welcome.  
  
This scene is definitely not complete, but I'm going to post it anyway. My apologies in advance for the abrupt ending. But hey, my writer's group seemed to enjoy it...  
  
When war came to Cormyr, the Black Dragons decided to make a little money by going into the mercenary business. Their first employer was a nobleman named Lord Avelstan. As you'll see, Lord Avelstan began to have some doubts about hiring adventurers to be his scouts. . .  
  
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SCOUNDRELS AND RUFFIANS  
  
Cormyr, near the Stonelands, autumn, DR 1371, the Year of the Unstrung Harp  
  
Lord Avery Avelstan stared at the map spread out across the field table in his tent. It was the largest tent in the encampment- the only one large enough to be divided, allowing him some small measure of privacy in the back, which held his cot, arms and small iron trunk. The map was held down by a rock at each corner. Small wooden blocks, crudely painted, marked the location of the forces arrayed in this war on the map. There seemed to be so many more red blocks than blue.  
  
On a cot near the closed flaps to the command tent, one of his knights, Sir Tresk, slept fitfully. He was a good man, Tresk, and Lord Avelstan didn't have the heart to kick him for falling asleep. Outside, it was pouring rain, and an occasional thunderclap would startle the tired commander, but Tresk snored on. Lord Avelstan was still awake, trying to go over in his head exactly how many men- and options- he had for the upcoming battle.  
  
"Twenty-two light horse, and four heavy," he mumbled to himself, then shook his head. "Plus me, that makes...twenty-five." He could barely think straight. "A score of archers, plenty of arrows- I checked that today myself," he continued. He went over the arrangement of his camp in his head. "Forty-two veterans and men-at-arms, plus a hundred-ten conscripts. But fourteen of those are down with campsickness, so that makes..." He tried vainly to think clearly. A boom of thunder made him almost jump- and lose count.  
  
At that moment, the tent flap opened. Out of the sheet of driving rain emerged a soaking wet figure, dripping all over the muddy furs which carpeted the lord's tent. He looked up to see who it was, and immediately recognized the War Wizard, Ambrestus. Behind him, Lord Avelstan could see the peering face of one of the conscripts who guarded the tent, nodding expectantly. No simple soldier would dare keep a war mage out in the rain waiting for an audience.  
  
"Good lads, all of 'em," he thought to himself, feeling a bit sorry for the poor recruit who had to stand outside while he was in his tent- at least somewhat dry, if not warm. Lord Avelstan looked up at the mage, and nodded. He had worked with War Wizards before, and few of them were as willing to take orders and offer advice as Ambrestus. Let alone go out in the rain. He smiled, and Ambrestus drew back his hood.  
  
Suddenly, Sir Tresk leapt up from his cot, groggily fumbling for his sword. "Halt," he commanded the newcomer, until he recognized who it was. Avelstan and Ambrestus both blinked at him and grinned. Sir Tresk suddenly looked embarrassed as he recognized the camp wizard, then realized he had fallen asleep. He glanced about nervously.  
  
"Ah, excuse me, Lord Ambrestus. I dint recognize you at first," he apologized.  
  
"No harm done, Tresk," Sir Avelstan said. "Tis only our good wizard, no doubt come with yet more good news." Given the recent lack of any good news, even this small joke wasn't funny. Sir Tresk, relieved he wasn't going to be flogged for sleeping on duty, respectfully bowed and went out the flap, muttering something about checking on the guards. Lord Avelstan had no intention of blaming Tresk for sleeping. If the younger knight was half as tired as he was, he'd needed the rest.  
  
"Really, Ambre, what brings you here? It's late. Not bad news, I hope."  
  
The wizard came forward, to stand opposite the field table with the map, and looked down at it intently. Few wizards understood or even cared about conventional tactics, but Ambrestus had a proven talent for it. The wizard touched one of the markers, tilted the wood piece as if checking for something underneath, then righted it again.  
  
"Nothing, really, M'Lord. It's just that your scouts were supposed to be in several hours ago, and I was wondering if you'd heard anything from them."  
  
Lord Avelstan shook his head. "Nay. You're right, they are overdue. I hope it's just the storm and nothing more which has delayed them. I've got to know more about the Dragon's lead forces. The tuskers could be on us at dawn, or dawn of the day after, at the latest." He shrugged. "The King hasn't sent any useful messages in days, which makes me wonder..."  
  
"...Whether he's got any better idea what we're facing than we do," the wizard said. "Aye," Lord Avelstan continued. " They must have bigger things to concern them than sending messengers to me."  
  
It was just this sort of thinking which had lead Lord Avelstan to hire his own scouts. The ones he'd gotten were little more than adventurers and scoundrels, but their leader- a man by the name of Pember- had credentials. He was a spellcaster of some sort from the east, at one time a member of War Wizards. Loyal to the king through and through, they'd assured him. If that part at least was true, Avelstan didn't care how much the man cost, or who he associated with. Pember had a few friends who, for gold, were willing to cross the border into the Stonelands and spy on the goblin armies mustering there. Avelstan had used his own money to pay the commission. When he thought about how his men were already running low on supplies, and how he had to now buy more and more with his own funds, he wondered whether the scouts were worth it. Sometimes, he worried whether he'd ever see this Pember again at all.  
  
Just as he was about to get depressed, the tent flaps rustled again. Ambrestus turned to see who was coming, and Avelstan, sensing something, reached unconsciously for his sword hilt. Both men blinked in surprise as the guard entered, with a glowering Sir Tresk behind him, sword drawn.  
  
"Scuse me, M'Lords," stammered the soggy guard. He bowed and scraped a bit, flustered.  
  
"Out with it, you thrice-damned bilge-rat," spat Tresk, who elbowed his way around the nervous soldier.  
  
Tresk came into the light of the camp- lanterns, and Lord Avelstan's eyes widened in surprise when he saw what the knight had on his arm. Ambrestus frowned. Sir Tresk held up his mail-clad arm. On his shoulder perched a huge, soaking wet hummingbird, as big as a pumpkin, its wings flittering incessantly.  
  
"What in the Seven Hells is THAT?" bellowed Lord Avelstan.  
  
"Tis a hummingbird, M'Lord," spluttered the guard, only to receive a glare from Sir Tresk. "It came up on me out of the rain," continued the guardsman, "headed straight down fer tha tent, an perched right on top of me pike, it did."  
  
"I'd not b'lieve it meself, Lord Avelstan, 'cept I saw it as well," confirmed Tresk. The bird was still fluttering and jittering on his arm, and Tresk- faced with something he thought might be important, and yet uncertain, was at as much of a loss as the guardsman. Ambrestus took some of the tension away by striding over to Tresk, and peering intently at the giant, unusual avian. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The wizard gently reached up and took the fluttering bird from Sir Tresk's shoulder. It squawked and flapped, despite the wizard's gentle handling. Ambrestus quickly set it on the table amongst the map and pieces. Tresk and the guard both looked immensely relieved. The guard bowed, saluted quickly, and ducked out. Tresk, nervous but interested, remained. Avelstan, his hand no longer on his sword hilt, stared at the oddity jumping around on the table.  
  
Ambrestus cast a quick spell, almost before Lord Avelstan could notice. The bird noticed, though, and fluttered down from the table to land on Sir Tresk's bunk.  
  
"No wonder," the wizard said. "There's magic all over this bird. It's a sorcerer or a messenger." Tresk heard that, and moved forward, to stand between his lord and the magical bird. As if in answer, the bird suddenly began to shimmer and...stretch. Lord Avelstan put a restraining hand on Sir Tresk, who would likely have slain the thing sooner than wait to find out who- or what- it was.  
  
In the blink of an eye, the bird transformed back into the wizard Pember- the leader of the group of delinquent, expensive scouts. He carefully eyed the knight, who was standing over him with a threateningly naked blade. Pember then turned to Ambrestus and nodded.  
  
"M'Lords," he said, by way of greeting. His voice seemed hoarse, and he immediately began to rub his arms, which had suddenly become terribly sore. That sort of thing happens when you're a hummingbird.  
  
Lord Avelstan gave a huge sigh of relief, and Ambrestus relaxed. Sir Tresk noticed that the newcomer ws dripping water all over his cot.  
  
"My good Sir Tresk," Avelstan ordered, "would you be so kind as to have someone bring ale for our messenger here?" Tresk nodded curtly and went for the flap, sheathing his broadsword as he went.  
  
Pember tried to say something, but only coughed at first. As Tresk paused, he finally managed to say, "Some tea would be much appreciated. Some HOT tea, if you can manage it." Tresk nodded, and went out. Pember collapsed back on the cot, without even offering proper respects to the two lords- his employers- who were standing before him. Ambrestus considered making something of it, but Lord Avelstan felt otherwise. If this Pember had anything useful to report, he could have the manners of an ogre and it wouldn't bother him.  
  
Ambrestus stepped back a few paces, so he could discreetly cast a truth- seeking spell. Pember didn't seem to notice, but whether that was because of the War Wizard's skill or Pember's exhaustion, Ambrestus wasn't sure. Pember sat up again after a moment and erupted into a long fit of coughing and hacking, like a man who has swallowed a feather and is trying unsuccessfully to expel it from his throat. Finally, Lord Ambrestus pulled a stool around, and sat down beside the cot.  
  
"What news, Master Pember?" the nobleman asked, somewhere between eager and impatient. "Can you now speak? How many orcs march against us? Is the dragon with them? How many spellcasters and siege engines have they brought? How many wains? Do they come through the passes, or are they staying on the trail?" Pember could only stare blankly at the barrage of questions.  
  
"And what of your compatriots?" Ambrestus added. That sparked something in the scout, and he suddenly became very worried.  
  
"Aye," Pember said, quietly at first. "That's what I came to tell you. My friends are nearing your lines, and you've got to let the troops know about it. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, after all." Lord Avelstan nodded at this. He looked around for Sir Tresk, but remembered he'd gone for the wizard's tea. "Guard!"  
  
At the commander's bellow, not just one but all three of the tent guards came bursting in, eyes wide and spears ready. Lord Avelstan stood up from his stool, and grabbed two of the guards by the arm."You two, get the word out, quickly. My scouts're comin back in tonight. The sergeants know the passwords- tell 'em to make sure the pickets do too."  
  
"Aye, M'Lord," the two soldiers responded in unison. With that, the two guards ran out to deliver their lord's orders. Ambrestus stood, and went over to put a hand on Pember's shoulders. The scout looked up at him.  
  
"Pember, are your friends close behind you?" the War Wizard asked, with perhaps the slightest weary hint of a twinkle in his eye. Pember nodded.  
  
"If I'm not mistaken," Ambrestus said, "the friends of goodmaster Pember here are already within our pickets.  
  
Pember then chuckled for the first time in many, many days. Grinning, he said, "And if I'm not mistaken, my good lords, then at least some of my friends have already found the tent where you keep your strongest ale, and are already sitting down somewhere dry with their boots off and hanging over one of your campfires."  
  
At that moment, a squire arrived, bearing a teapot.  
  
***  
  
Pember was only half right. At least some of his friends had, in fact, found the tent where the Third Cormite Company kept its strongest ale. But because of the diligence of Lord Avelstan's quartermaster, they were far from getting any of it. The supplies were kept in a makeshift wooden building, longer and lower than the lord's tent, with a plank floor to keep the contents dry and on the other side of the camp. The quartermaster Verilg was a gruff veteran of many years with Cormyr's navy, and so he knew how to avoid getting supplies swindled out from under his nose- whether at land or sea. At that moment, the balding Verilg was standing outside, as the pouring rain began to let up, guarding the locked door to his supply cabin with a stout cudgel and an even stouter temper.  
  
He was being glared at by two very wet, very armed, and very ornery, figures. One was a halfling, buried somewhere inside a large, brown cloak. He wore studded leather armor, with a shortsword in a scabbard at his belt, and a wooden shield slung across his back. The other was a slim human, clad likewise in a brown cloak, but beneath that he wore leather armor that looked rather new, albeit somewhat dirty. Over it was a plain tunic of unadorned sable. This one bore a longsword at his side and a long knife at his belt, but no shield. Both had leather gloves, grey boots and black trousers with mud up to the knees.  
  
"Now you look 'ere, gramps," said the halfling, his hands on his hips, looking up at the old seaman. "We're scouts in the employ of yer laird hisself, an we're just come back from traipsing through the hairiest territory you ever imagined. We want some ale, an we wants it now. And some pastries too, if you got 'em, and I know ya do, and we want 'em both double quick."  
  
Verilg didn't quite know what to make of this scolding, but he wasn't about to open his larder for two ruffians who somehow wandered into camp, and without even proper uniforms. Not only that, but there weren't many halflings in the fleet, and he was in fact quite astounded to find one looking up at him now, in the middle of the night, soaking wet with rain. For all he knew, the entire army- dragons and all- was about to descend on his supply cabin at dawn. He looked to the halfling's human companion for help. He didn't get any.  
  
"We've got a Charter, see?" continued the halfling, who patted his pockets. "And it says we works fer the lord himself," he said as he felt in his boots for said contract. Unable to find it, he continued. "It explicitly states, and I quote-"  
  
At that, his human companion spoke up.  
  
"Collo," he said, with a silk voice that almost made old Verilg shiver, "I don't think you'll find that copy of our contract, since I lifted it from you yesterday." With a wink at the old quartermaster, he pulled out a tattered, much-folded piece of parchment that was tucked in his belt and waved it over Collo's head. This only seemed to further infuriate the thirsty, tired halfling.  
  
"Poiniard," he scowled, "I knew you lifted it, cause I saw you do it." Then, in a slightly louder voice, as if wanting to let Verilg in on a secret, Collo continued, "But it was such a feeble attempt that I pretended not to notice cause I dint want to hurt your feelings, and I know how sensitive you are about such things. But the fact remains, this sturdy guardian has not yet relinquished the keys to his cellar- which contains the brew to which you and I both are legally entitled, as written on yon charter." He indicated the paper, which Poiniard had now tucked back into a quite different hiding place on his person. A hiding place which did not escape Collo's notice, but which Verilg quite missed, though he had been watching Poiniard closely the whole time. "You said it, Collo," answered Poiniard. "Entitled."  
  
With that, Verilg's already thin patience evaporated, and he turned to the two scouts with a frown. "Now see here, you two," he began. "I don't know who you are, nor do I like the look or tone of ye, but it's obvious you're inside the camp, so you must be friendlies..."  
  
Collo and Poiniard both pretended to listen, but neither payed any attention to the old sailor's lecture, because by then one of them already had relieved him of his key ring. 


	3. Better Times

Author's Note and Standard Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is a tribute to the Forgotten Realms, its creator and its fans. Certain settings and characters appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. Most of the characters are my own. All reviews are welcome.  
  
I'm not sure whether I consider this a complete, stand-alone chapter or not. At around 4,000 words, it might be just a big scene.  
  
After the hero business got a little too political for the Black Dragons, they decided to retire and go into a more reputable line of work. Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out. For one thing, there was this war. Even when it was over, its effects were still being felt.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~  
  
BETTER TIMES  
  
Cormyr, the village of Tyrluk, autumn, DR1372, the Year of Wild Magic  
  
"Turnips and pig snouts again!" groaned Helin, staring glumly into the half-full wooden bowl on the table in front of her and poking at the thin stew with her spoon. Her companion, Gault, lifted his own bowl to his lips and drained it without complaint.  
  
"I'm sorry, Miss," the serving girl apologized. "I'd take it back and bring ye another, but we just ain't got any better, honest."  
  
Helin was disappointed, but not surprised. Turnip stew was about the best she could hope for. Times were hard in the Forest Kingdom, and even a middling inn like the Dancing Bear along a major road found proper food hard to come by. The girl who had brought their meal looked half-starved herself. They sat at a large table in the common room of the Inn of the Dancing Bear. Though it had never been the finest inn to be found in Tyrluk, both town and tavern had seen better days.  
  
"No, I am the one who should apologize," Helin said. "I should not complain so much, in troubled times such as these."  
  
"Aye," Gault agreed, as soon as the servant was out of earshot. "It has been a poor summer. The coming winter will not be any easier. You and I, we could live better out in the wilds than here. I have been into the heart of the King's Forest, where there's still plenty of venison. Most folk just don't know where to look."  
  
"I would like that, Gault," Helin replied, putting her hand on his. "But let's wait 'till the others get here, and see what they have to say."  
  
It was not long before the first of the others arrived- a thin, one- handed man in robes, and a lithe, non-descript man in somewhat expensive leathers.  
  
"Mind if we join you?" asked the man in the leather armor.  
  
"Poiniard!" exclaimed Helin, smiling up at him. "And Pember! Good to see you again. Where are your brothers, Poiniard?" she asked.  
  
"My half-brothers, you mean," he answered. "Gwydien is on his way here from Marsember with Broderick. Last I saw Gwydeln, he was traipsing about the Dalelands with Hafgrim." He looked around the common room of the Dancing Bear. "This place sure does bring back some memories." With that, he sat down and helped himself to some of Helin's bread.  
  
***  
  
The inn of the Dancing Bear stood on the north side of the High Road where it ran through the town of Tyrluk. The High Road began far to the west, at the mountain fortress of High Horn, and ran down and east into the plains of northern Cormyr. Tyrluk and the Dancing Bear were the first stop on the High Road for those continuing on eastward to the larger towns of Eveningstar and Arabel. A good many soldiers travelled this road in both directions, but few others. In better times, the High Road would be filled with merchants, farmers and travellers, and the Dancing Bear would be filled with light and song. But now, bandits and worse often lay in ambush along the way.  
  
The King's Road came to Tyrluk from the south, and ended at the very doors of the inn. This road lead away southward through the King's Forest, a vast expanse of woodlands whose eaves brushed against the rooftops of Tyrluk. The King's Road was now mostly empty, even moreso than the High Road, although a few moons ago both had been clogged with refugees fleeing south away from the wars. Soon after, the forest had become infested with bandits and other lawless men as the unfortunate turned to robbery and poaching to survive. Most of the forest bandits no doubt had been forced into such a life out of desperation, their only other choice being starvation. Yet, some of them were more opportunistic and determined, and found a lawless existence in the King's Forest easier than honest work in field or farm. It was these who the lords of Cormyr wished to hunt down.  
  
The forest offered better terrain for brigands to ambush, and better for them to hide in after their escape, and fewer soldiers travelled its length. Despite the efforts of the Crown, the King's Road was even more dangerous than the High Road. Four old friends on horseback arrived at the front door to the inn at precisely the same moment. Two came from the south, and two came from the north.  
  
"Hail, Black Dragons!" cried out Gwydien.  
  
"Hail and well met," answered Gwydeln, leaning over his saddle horn and clasping his brother's hand.  
  
"Hafgrim, it is good to see you again, as well," said Gwydien. "It has been too long since I've seen either of you. Tell me, what news from the north?"  
  
"We encountered some trolls in the plains north of Eveningstar, near the Haunted Halls," replied Gwydeln. "But they did not slow our progress for long. As you can see, we are both unhurt." The warrior grinned at his brother. "What news from the south?"  
  
"Well, Broderick and I came up the Waymoot Road through the King's Forest. We saw signs of brigands, but thank the Lady of Luck, we were not ourselves waylaid. We did meet a kindly goodwife, recently widowed, bless her soul. Wearing a purple scarf, no less." The bard gave a knowing wink. Gwydeln smirked and Broderick rolled his eyes. Hafgrim simply glowered and twirled his beard. "Which by the customs of the Forest Kingdom meant she was looking for a mate. Brown-haired she was, and fair, fairly well endowed with-"  
  
Before Gwydien could get too far with his embellishments, Broderick interrupted him. "Have the others arrived yet?" Both brothers shrugged.  
  
"I know not," answered the warrior. "We have only just arrived. Is this the right inn?"  
  
The bard looked up at the sign above the door and nodded. The shingle was painted with a brown bear, standing atop a red ball, juggling three yellow balls with its paws.  
  
"The sign of the Dancing Bear," he read.  
  
"There will be time enough for this sort of talk later, my friends," Broderick declared. "I don't like the looks of this storm coming out of the north. We should be getting inside, where it is warm."  
  
"Aye, I'd not mind a nice warm fire," agreed Gwydien.  
  
"And a bite," said Gwydeln.  
  
"And a pint," added Hafgrim.  
  
"Then let us go inside," said Gwydien.  
  
***  
  
The officers of the Black Dragon Mercenary Company and Trading Coster found themselves gathered around Helin's table in the common room. The winds howled outside the inn which, for the night at least, served as their headquarters. Old friends greeted one another while the serving girl came back with more bread and stew. Gwydien gave her a friendly wink, and Hafgrim sent her back for a round of ale.  
  
"You call this an evening meal?" asked Poiniard, disappointed.  
  
"We are one short," observed Gwydeln, with a wry look at the dwarf. Hafgrim was impatiently drumming his fingers on the table. "Where is Mheren?"  
  
"She is not coming," Gault said. Gwydien sighed, though only his brothers noticed. "She is back at my camp in the forest, but she sends her greetings."  
  
"Hrm," nodded Poiniard. "Probably the best thing for her. We always did have trouble getting her into town."  
  
Gault shrugged. He was usually able to conceal the orcish side of his bloodline, but Mheren, who was dark elven, could never hope to pass as human. A cowled hood had always sufficed in the past, so Gault suspected that Mheren had other reasons for not joining them.  
  
No one spoke while they ate, save for Broderick's brief prayer of thanks to Chauntea for the meal, and to Lady Luck for their continued health. The dwarf's eyes lit up, though, as he spied the servant returning with the drinks at last. The drinks were handed out, and the girl smiled and went off. Broderick cleared his throat.  
  
"Well, it is time we discussed our prospects, " he said.  
  
"What of our holdings in Marsember?" asked Pember, finishing the last bite of his bread.  
  
"Well my good wizard," answered Gwydien, "I'm afraid our Caravanserie is all but ruined." The bard set down his mug and continued. "Prices for everything are up, and no one's interested in buying anything but food for the winter- and that's hard enough to come by." No one needed to be reminded of that. "And there's no longer any market for luxuries or magic," he went on. "The Sembians have hiked their taxes, and that big shipment is rotting in a warehouse in Ordulin 'till we pay."  
  
"What of the wains we sent to Hillsfar?" asked Pember.  
  
"We lost the new caravan on the Halfaxe trail less than a tenday ago,"  
answered Gwydeln. "The Iron Throne got wind of us, somehow," grumbled Hafgrim. Poiniard, who was sitting across from the dwarf, shrugged.  
  
"Might be our informant has turned," he said. "Wouldn't surprise me- the Iron Throne can sure pay better'n us these days."  
  
"Aye," conceded Gwydien. "Or, it could have just been ordinary brigands. All the lands are full of lawless men these days."  
  
"In any case," his brother Gwydeln added, "it was a mistake to pull so many men from guarding the caravans to fight in the Company."  
  
"When the tuskers invaded Cormyr and the dragon came, we all agreed to put aside the Coster and put our efforts into the Company," Broderick reminded them.  
  
"Aye, and it still was not enough," replied Gwydeln, clenching his fist. The warrior was still bitter from their defeat, which he considered his alone. He scowled at the priest's reminder. "We were cut to pieces that day."  
  
"Yes," answered Broderick, sighing. "And so was most of the Forest Kingdom. Yet, we are still here."  
  
"Perhaps we should get rid of the Coster altogether, before everything is gone?" offered Helin.  
  
"You mean sell off what we still have?" asked Poiniard. "Who would buy it?"  
  
"We were approached by Hamasphur of Selgaunt a tenday ago," said Gwydien.  
  
"You mean that nurker who's holding the Ordulin shipment 'till we pay his so-called-taxes?" Poiniard glowered. "I'd sooner kiss an ettin." Helin giggled.  
  
"Bah, I'm not selling anything to a Sembian," agreed Gwydeln.  
  
"Well, perhaps the Trader's Alliance from Waterdeep, then? Surely they have an agent in Suzail somewhere," suggested Gwydien.  
  
"Perhaps," Broderick suggested. "Could we not donate what we have left to the church? You remember the priestess in Suzail? The Tower of the Lady of Luck?"  
  
Poiniard scowled, and a few of the others shook their heads. "I'm not about to just give away my share," he said.  
  
Broderick sighed, and shook his head.  
  
"Well, we will just to have to look for a suitable buyer," said Gwydien.  
  
"We've spoken enough of our Trading Coster," interrupted Pember. "What of the affairs of the Mercenary Company? Perhaps the military arm of our enterprise has fared better than the mercantile. Gwydeln, how many men are left of the Company? We had half a hundred survived the battle." Pember knew he would not like the answer.  
  
"We fielded two-hundred men-at-arms, and two score of archers pulled in from the Coster side. Of that, less than a tithe remain. Those who had anyplace to go have already left."  
  
"Bah, mutiny," growled Hafgrim. "I'll go straighten that out soon as we finish 'ere. Thems signed on fer a contract and it ain't up yet. Breakin' a few shins will put a stop ta that nonsense."  
  
"Can't say as I blame 'em," the warrior said quietly. "They're cold, they've little enough food and they know we can't pay them past the New Moon. I've scoured the lands from Suzail to Arabel. There are simply no men to recruit. Not the sort we'd consider, anyway. If we're going to get some new blood, we'll need to search farther afield."  
  
"Perhaps another visit to the Dalelands," suggested Hafgrim. That elicited grumbles all around, followed by an awkward moment of thoughtful silence. The winds howled outside the inn.  
  
"Well," Pember asked. "How much do we have left in the treasury?"  
  
Broderick quietly drew a large, battered backpack from beneath the table.  
  
"This is all that remains of our commission," he answered. He stood up, unhooked the catch, and spilled out the contents. There was a small pile of gold coins and gems, a roll of parchment with a tattered black ribbon, and a gold medallion.  
  
At the sound of clinking coins, a man drinking at a nearby table looked over. His eyes widened as he saw the treasure spread out on their table. What seemed a pittance to the guild officers looked to be a year's wages to a commoner. Poiniard curled his lip and gave the man a sinister glare. The man wisely averted his eyes, suddenly very interested with something in the bottom of his mug.  
  
Helin reached out and picked up the medallion from the top of the pile. It sparkled in the lantern light, showing the royal crest of Cormyr.  
  
"Well, at least we have the gratitude of the nobles," she smiled. The medallion was not even real gold, just plated copper.  
  
"That thing's worth about as much as goblin spit these days, " chuckled Poiniard. "The nobles are in as sad a state as we are, some even worse."  
  
"I count six hundred gold lions, and another thousand worth in gems, " estimated Broderick. Pember reached out and took the roll of parchment off the table. A few eyebrows raised at the sight of it.  
  
"My friends," said Pember, "I hate to say it, but, the Black Dragon Mercenary Company and Trading Coster is no more."  
  
Poiniard chuckled. "So much for earning an honest living," he grinned. "Now that we have arrived at the obvious, the question is- what are we to do now?"  
  
"We could go hunt goblins in the Stonelands," suggested Gault.  
  
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" grinned Poiniard. "But I heard they aren't able to pay the bounties, even though they're still offerin'."  
  
"The Crown is as broke as we are," said Gwydien.  
  
Pember removed the ribbon and unrolled the paper he was holding. It was their Charter, issued years ago to a fledgling adventuring party by an agent of the Crown. This was no lucrative contract that might rebuild the Mercenary Company, nor a valuable trade agreement that would pay the debts of the Trading Coster. It was merely the license to exist as a band of adventurers, formed long before they'd ever given thought to business or war.  
  
"My friends," Pember declared, holding up the Charter. "The only way to get back what we've lost is to go back to doing the only thing we're good at- adventuring."  
  
***  
  
The doors to the common room burst open. They turned and saw a squad of armsmen enter and survey the common room. The guards wore the tabard of the Purple Dragon over their mail. "King's Men," hissed Poiniard. Broderick hastily shoved the coins and gems back into his pack and set it under the table.  
  
"Looks like they're comin' this way," rumbled Hafgrim. The foremost guardsman scowled as he approached with a few of his men.  
  
"Lawless freeswords are not welcome in Cormyr, troubled times or no," said the sergeant, one mailed hand resting easily on his belt, near his sword hilt. "We are soldiers of the King, and there'll be no trouble from ruffians while we are in Tyrluk."  
  
"Rufiians?" asked Helin, dismayed.  
  
"Now see here, Sergeant," Pember huffed, getting to his feet. "We are adventurers, not brigands. Look here." The wizard handed their Charter over to the sergeant. He read it carefully and passed it back.  
  
"Well, ye do have a Charter, so yer assemblage is lawful," the sergeant said, still skeptical. "But ye should all be wearing peace-strings about your weapons."  
  
"I guess mine must have fallen off," Poiniard snickered, putting a hand over the hilt of his shortsword. Broderick glared at the rogue from across the table.  
  
"An honest mistake, my good man," Gwydien assured the sergeant. The bard hastily stood up and put an arm around one of the guardsmen in a companionable way. "To most civilized people, adventurers are indistinguishible from ruffians. Come, let me buy a round of drinks for you and your men, and we'll drink to the health of the Prince Ascendant. While food may be scarce in Cormyr, ale is not."  
  
"Praise all the gods," Gwydeln muttered under his breath. The other guardsmen wandered off as Gwydien lead their sergeant over toward the taproom. Once a cask had been broached, everyone in the room breathed a collective sigh of relief there would not be any violence. Soon, Gwydien called for his lute.  
  
"Will you accompany me on your flute, Broderick?" he asked.  
  
"Nay," the cleric answered, shaking his head. Gwydien shrugged and went off. Soon, the guardsmen were singing along, or mingling with the other patrons. For a while at least, they were able to forget their troubles.  
  
The sergeant soon returned to their table. Gwydeln gestured to an empty chair and the man sat down.  
  
"Hail and well met," he said. "I am Lhusk of Waymoot."  
  
"Well met, sergeant," answered Gwydeln. "I am Gwydeln, Captain of the Black Dragon Mercenary Company." He went on to introduce the others at the table. "The dwarf is Hafgrim son of Bjorngrim, Blood of Agroth of Sarphil, First Axe of the Company." Hafgrim politely stood and bowed after the manner of the dwarves. "The pretty one is Helin Ghreyfa," Gwydeln continued, indicating her with a smile. Helin blushed at the compliment. "She serves Sylvanus while caring for our mounts. Her companion is Gault, the Worg of Jharek, slayer of giants." The sergeant could not help but notice that Gault had an orcish look to him. "Gault is the trusted and valiant master of our scouts," Gwydeln reassured him. "A finer tracker you will not find in all the land, nor one more loyal to the kingdom." Gwydeln then turned to indicate Gwydien, who was across the room. "Yon minstrel is my brother, Gwydien Manyswords. He runs the Black Dragon Trading Coster in Marsember. Our half-brother, Poiniard-" Gwydeln blinked, for Poiniard had somehow slipped away without being noticed. The warrior shrugged and went on. "Well, he assists Gwydien in counting coins. Here is Broderick of Tymora, the chronicler of our deeds and the much overworked steward of our spiritual well-being." Broderick smiled warmly at the sergeant. "And this is Pember One-Handed, our own humble enchanter of no small reknown." Lhusk could not help but notice that Pember's left hand was missing above the wrist, but again, the swordlord politely held his tongue.  
  
"The Black Dragons, ye say?" He rubbed his chin, and took the mug Gwydeln offered. "Not quite what I was expectin'."  
  
"Expecting?" Gwydeln asked cautiously. Swordlord Lhusk nodded.  
  
"Aye. I was given a missive to deliver to ye," he explained. "Right from the top, by the looks of it. Came by messenger two nights ago. But I didn't half expect to find ya, 'cause I'd heard ye'd disbanded after the wars."  
  
"Well, we did. We here are all that is left."  
  
"I've heard of yer outfit, though." Lhusk went on. "During the Dragonfall War, I fought in the west, attached to the banner of the Lord of Tyrluk. You were further east, weren't ye?"  
  
"Indeed," answered the warrior. "Our Company was in the hire of Lord Avelstan, whose lands lie near Eveningstar. We did mostly scout work. Before that, we were down in Marsember, hired on by Lord Illance."  
  
"Ah," said Lhusk. "Lord Avelstan died in battle, did he not?"  
  
"Aye, along with his son and heir."  
  
"Ye were badly mauled in the last battle of the war. It saddens me, but I had hoped to learn otherwise. Sturdy lads, the Black Dragons, so twas said. My own company fared little better. We took a severe beating. Lost a lot of men, though we made them tuskers pay dear."  
  
"Entire units died to a man," said Gwydeln. "Mostly those who were caught in the dragonfire, which we were not."  
  
"We may 'ave won the war," Lhusk said, "but it sure doesn't seem like it. We've just come from Norbe Keep, a minor barony 'bout a days ride north an' east of here, north of Eveningstar and near the Haunted Halls. Twas a nice enough place, once. I visited it once in my younger days. Now the baron's died an' Norbe Keep is all but ruined. Lady Norbe an' her daughters rule the place now, but there's no men to keep order in what's left of her husbands lands. I'd hoped to put my lads up in the keep overnight, but no such luck." Gwydeln raised an eyebrow."They refused to provide shelter to a squad of Purple Dragons?" he asked in disbelief.  
  
Lhusk shrugged. "Not so much that they refused," he explained. "Better to say that they couldn't. They've no food, and most of their servants have fled. There's not a room in the place what has so much as a roof, let alone four walls standing. The Lady Norbe greeted us, an invited us in, but she kept insisting her lord husband was going to return, and she acted as if nothing had happened. But tweren't nobody about save her two daughters and an old chamberlain. Lady Norbe kept calling for her cooks as if they were still alive, an' apologizin' when they dint arrive ta serve up the dinner. She sent one of my lads out to her stables to have the groomsmen look after our mounts, an' there weren't no stables left, nor any groomsmen. She was startin' to make the lads nervous. Not to speak ill of a noblewoman, but I think the events of the past season have afflicted her mind."  
  
"If you don't mind me askin', Captain Gwydeln, if ye get a chance, maybe you could ride yer folk up north an' look in on Lady Norbe?"  
  
"Certainly," said Gwydeln.  
  
Lhusk paused wistfully and shook his head. "We lived so long under the rule of good king Azoun, we dint know how good off we had it. Now the King is dead." They all raised their cups in silent tribute to the Old King, and the sergeant took a long drink from his mug.  
  
"Now, don't get me wrong," he continued, whiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Most of my men respect the Steel Princess, and I do too." He lowered his voice slightly. "But there's some as are uncomfortable with the whole idea of a Regency. These men are no traitors, mind you- just men loyal and true what are afeared for their wives and homes."  
  
"Understandable," said Broderick. "You've heard the tales of Salember, the Rebel Prince?" The sergeant nodded. "That trouble came up during the last Regency- a hundred winters ago."  
  
"Theres even worse news," the guardsman continued. "All of these northlands are rife with goblins and orcs, now that we've retaken Arabel."  
  
"Surely the king's War Wizards will be able to straighten things out," suggested Pember.  
  
"The War Wizards are in disarray too," the sergeant countered, "though they don't let on about it. It wasn't just swordsmen who died in the war- we lost a good many finger-wagglers, too. Word has it not only is there a new head of that outfit, but also a new Court Mage as well." The sergeant shook his head.  
  
"What will come of it all, I wonder." He took another drink.  
  
"Are you being moved to the rear, to winter over in High Horn?" asked Gwydeln. The sergeant nodded.  
  
"Well, I've some worse news of my own," continued Gwydeln, "though perhaps you've already heard it. Hafgrim and I just come back from the Dalelands, and we had to make our way through some pretty evil territory on our way here to Tyrluk. We passed by Tilverton, and some sort of magical catastrophe befell the city."  
  
"What say you?" asked Pember.  
  
"I cannot say," Gwydeln replied with a shrug. "The town is nothing more than a smoking ruin. We were turned away by guardsmen, and could not get near the place."  
  
"And the weather is strange, too," interrupted Helin. "Huge storms all summer, and now these early blizzards coming over the Stonelands."  
  
"Out of the deserts of Anauroch," said Pember.  
  
"There's strange deeds and evil afoot there, folks say," added the sergeant. "You hear a thousand tales, none of 'em the same. Most folk are of a mind that the blackness that overtook Tilverton is linked to whatever's happening out in the desert."  
  
With that, the sergeant drained his mug and stood up. He removed a scroll from his tunic. It was bound with a purple ribbon, and sealed with wax.  
  
"Well, I need to go check on the lads," he said. "Here is the message I was to deliver." He handed the scroll to Gwydeln. "I thankee for the drink, and the talk. We're hard-pressed that's for sure, and it's good to see well- armed adventurers who abide by the King's Laws for once. Until swords part." 


End file.
